


keep my feet on holy ground

by Wade (monzi)



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Drabble, M/M, no dickings here sorry, set in a hopefully not so distant future, the inherent drama of this ship, where everything's fine and nothing hurts, which has utterly consumed my life in under a week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 10:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20723006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monzi/pseuds/Wade
Summary: Falling is easy. All it takes is someone to hold on to.





	keep my feet on holy ground

**Author's Note:**

> these two are some next level shit, like its not even "enemies to lovers" its "friends to lovers to enemies to friends to lovers". what the actual fuck. anyway intsys give us more zruno.

The mask comes off first, before the cloak, the armor, before his mind even catches up with what his mouth is doing. Alfonse throws it across the room unceremoniously. Angry, even.

"You won't need it." He says, firm. "Not again."

Bruno barely stops to nod before he dives back in, now perfectly aware of the sensation of lips on skin. Lets his body remember what it wanted so long ago. It's a long time coming, this. Perhaps more so for Alfonse than for himself, who could never be subtle with his regard even on the best of days, years and years ago, when Bruno could still stand to be in the same room and not go mad with fear and disgust at himself and something wholly separate from his own mind.

The call is silent, at long, long last. For good. For everyone who ever heard its voice and couldn't find the strength to fight it. That, more than anything else, has him lightheaded.

Alfonse meets his eyes when they come up for air, red on blue. Maybe his thoughts are going down the same road, or he's simply looking for a connection, some kind of reassurance that this is happening after all. That they aren't caught up in the moment before the farewells start.

His tongue feels laden, so he says nothing, simply pushes Alfonse towards the bed. The same direction he is already being pulled in. The loudest sound in the room, aside from their hurried breathing, is the clack of Alfonse's heels on stone. Bruno allows himself a smile, small and private, at that. They don't make Alfonse any taller.

Falling is easy. All it takes is someone to hold on to, and someone else's hands gripping so hard at his shoulders he can hear the knuckles creak. With that same desperation he peels off the rest of Alfonse's armor, reaching the soft fabric underneath. Deeper still is soft, warm skin.

Alfonse's hands take the time to trace the lines of his torso, finding scars. Old and familiar, new and raw, looking for any mark he might have drawn there himself -- and there is one, parallel to his collarbone, where Alfonse's sword broke through the breastplate and sent him sprawling on the floor.

He had been so relieved then, thinking _this is it, now is when I rest. _

Alfonse said no. Sharena said please. Anna all but ordered him to live, as if she had any authority left over him.

So he put himself back together -- as much as he could find that was still his own, still pure and unaltered -- and crawled back to his sister's side. Even in her own madness she found it in herself to care. Four people, out of every realm he has traveled to, who have more of an investment in his survival he ever cared to find.

Humbling. Maddening. Overwhelming. He tears the crown out of Alfonse's hair in much the same way he lost his mask. No royal blood here.

He closes his eyes, hard, Alfonse's hands so gently cradling the sides of his face. Feels a headache sneaking up on him, a tremor in his arms, his legs going numb. All of that he can ignore, so long as there's more of that welcoming warmth underneath him.

He breathes faster -- when did the air get so thin, where did all his focus go -- and opens his eyes only to follow the trail of his fingers. Navel to sternum.

Stops there, to feel the steady rise and fall, the drumming of Alfonse's heart, so much slower than his own.

Moves again.

Reaches the delicate dip of a collarbone.

Wavers.

Will his mind stay his own?

Will his hands do as he asks of them, when offered the inherent vulnerability of a bare throat?

Will he still be himself tomorrow, an hour from now?

His sight goes blurry. It's a slow and odd realization, to notice he hasn't cried since he was a child, cast out to the border between two countries at war.

The hands on his face slip down to the back of his neck, to go through his hair. Alfonse brings his legs up, wraps them around Bruno -- Zacharias, then and now again -- so tight. Such a bold and even possessive gesture from someone usually so demure. He can almost breathe again.

"What is it?" Alfonse brings himself up with an elbow, to take more of his weight. "What do you -- tell me, what can I do?"

He shakes his head no. No, to what? To the offer of help? To the affection freely given even now? Specially now, when Alfonse pets his hair in a motion more soothing than he cares to admit, when strong legs frame his hips and shift to let him settle in more comfortably, but not to draw away.

It's a selfish, childish part of him that has him wrappingg his own shaking arms around Alfonse, like his body might break without the anchor.

"What can I do?" Alfonse asks again, when Bruno's head is cradled carefully under his chin.

He reaches to lace their fingers together, still at his neck.

"Just this. Just this."

This is enough. He has everything, now.


End file.
